


Starmaker

by Sir_Bedevere



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Ancient Egypt, Asexual Character, Asexual Relationship, Crowley Was Raphael Before Falling (Good Omens), Fluff, Gen, Historical, Kid Fic, M/M, New Year's Eve, New Year's Fluff, New Year's Kiss, does it count as kid fic if the kids are snakes but so is one of the parents?, this is soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:47:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22054297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sir_Bedevere/pseuds/Sir_Bedevere
Summary: “You were a starmaker?” Aziraphale asks, his fingers twisting his ring. His angelic ring. It always feels heavier when he talks to the demon. “I didn’t know.”“Never told you, did I?” Crawley’s indifference is careful. “But yeah. I was.”New year in Cairo 2110 BC and new year in London 2019 look remarkably similar when there's Crowley, Aziraphale, a bunch of kids and those old familiar stars watching over them.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 40
Kudos: 255
Collections: Wiggleverse





	Starmaker

**Author's Note:**

> Happy New Year, all!

_Cairo. 19th July 2110 BC_

Aziraphale’s eyes are burning, but he holds the pen surely and finishes his sentence. It has been a long few days, but the flood is due any time now and the work must be done before the festival begins. 

The temple is cool and he gets up gladly to walk around and stretch his legs. His fellow scribes are still hard at work and none of them even glance up as he goes by, intent on their copying. It hasn’t taken much angelic influence to be accepted here, the place that he has decided to reside for the time being. As far as these scribes are concerned, he has always been one of them. And he enjoys the work. He really does. Their language is truly fascinating. So innovative, these humans are. 

Egypt was not his first choice, but Gabriel had suggested he settle down for a while.

“Easier to find you if you have a base,” he’d said, on Aziraphale’s last trip to Heaven. “Besides, lots going on there. Interesting country. Downstairs will be sticking their noses in so we should too.”

Egypt does not hold happy memories, but Aziraphale is sure Gabriel knows more than he is letting on, so he has settled himself into a job as a scribe and found some rooms. 

And it _is_ rather nice not to be wandering around all the time, having a place to go every evening if he chooses to. Perhaps he will get used to it, living a little more like a human.

“Aziraphale!” 

He turns and sees one of the younger scribes hurrying up behind him. The Egyptians pronounce his name so charmingly, with a long sound at the beginning, and he never bothered to change it to fit it. They all accept readily enough that it is Babylonian in origin. 

“Hello, Seth, my boy,” he says. “I was just thinking about going to find some lunch.”

“I’ll come with you. I’m starving.”

Seth is barely out of his childhood, or so it seems to Aziraphale, and he’s always smiling. Aziraphale remembers another Seth who too had been a happy boy though he was born into such sadness, and he cannot help but be fond of this Seth because of it. 

They buy beer and bread with figs from a trader at the temple gate, and go to find a patch of shade to sit in. 

“My father says the star will come tonight,” Seth says confidently, as Aziraphale carefully crosses his legs and smooths down his karasaris. Seth flops beside him. 

“It seems like it,” Aziraphale nods, taking the first bite of his bread. Delicious. “It will be nice to have a little holiday.”

“I can’t wait.” Seth shoves half his bread into his mouth in one go, chews faster than anyone Aziraphale has ever met. He thinks that perhaps the boy grew up hungry. 

“I’ve never seen the festival, you know,” Aziraphale says. “I’m quite eager to take part.”

“Oh it’s great,” Seth swallows his mouthful, takes up his beer skin. “Food and poems and a play and no work.”

The new year festival, Wepet-Renpet, is always signalled with the arrival of the star, Sirius, back into the sky and the flooding of the river that comes soon after. Aziraphale has somehow missed it every time he’s been in the area, but now he is settled, he’s looking forward to it. 

“Will you come to my house for some of the feast?” Seth asks. “My mother said I should invite you, as you have no family of your own.”

“I’d be honoured,” Aziraphale says, swigging at his beer. Then he misses what Seth says next, because he feels a familiar jolt, a buzz in the back of his skull.

_Crawley._

He looks around carefully, nodding as Seth talks nineteen to the dozen, but he can’t see him anywhere. The demon would definitely stand out here, with his height and his red hair. 

He tries to remember the last time that he saw Crawley. Definitely somewhere in Mesopotamia, but he’s not certain when that was. What could he be up to, here in Cairo? Something no good. 

“Aziraphale, are you listening to me?”

Seth is waving his hand in front of his face, and Aziraphale jerks back. 

“I’m sorry, my dear, just thinking. What were you saying?”

“Nothing important,” the boy grins. “Someone catch your eye did they?”

“Oh no,” Aziraphale blushes, adjusts his bracelets. “I was just thinking of - something I have to do. Can you make my excuses?”

“Of course. Can I tell Mother that you will come. On one of the festival days?”

“Absolutely.”

Seth scrambles to his feet and helps Aziraphale up, then runs a hand over his shaven head. 

“She’ll be so pleased. I’ll see you tomorrow then!”

And he’s off, running for the sheer pleasure of running. Aziraphale watches him, a fond smile on his face, then turns towards the crowd in the marketplace. Crawley is here somewhere. Close by too, or else he wouldn’t be able to sense him. 

He weaves amongst the stalls, going deeper into the streets. Everyone is preparing for the flood and days of celebration, so it is a busy afternoon. The littlest children run naked in and around the stalls, tripping everyone up, getting in the way. Then Aziraphale notices that they are all heading in the same direction, and on a whim he follows them. He’s seen this before. 

And his hunch is right, as he rounds a corner and finds Crawley with a handful of coloured beads and a crowd of children around him. Children always flock to the demon. They always have done. 

“One each,” Crawley says, handing out the beads. “There’s enough for everyone.”

Aziraphale coughs and Crawley looks up, grins. His red hair is hidden underneath a fashionable wig, which explains why Aziraphale hadn’t been able to see him in the crowd. 

“Just a minute, angel,” he says, turning back to the children. They hold out little hands and take the beads solemnly. Aziraphale does not miss how Crawley gives more than one to the littlest boy, who is skeleton thin and wearing no jewellery at all. 

The demon and children have long been a mystery, for Crawley seems to do nothing demonic around them, nothing to tempt them into naughtiness or disobedience. Whatever his game, Aziraphale is not clever enough to see it. 

“Off you go, I’m all out,” Crawley says, holding out his empty hands. The children groan, clutching their prizes, then skip away. No doubt they will trade them for little treats. Perhaps that is the point of giving them out. 

“Hello angel,” Crawley nods, leaning casually against a wall. “Fancy seeing you here.”

Somehow, it doesn’t seem like a fancy at all. In fact, Aziraphale is sure that it isn’t.

“What are you doing here, Crawley? Did you know I’d settled here for a while?”

“Maybe,” Crawley shrugs. “Maybe not.”

He pulls a beer skin out of nowhere and sits down, legs crossed. His shendyt is short, as is the fashion for men these days, and it rides up, revealing tanned knees. Aziraphale does not look at them, or at Crawley’s bare chest. Trust a demon to have adopted this fashion instead of the longer robe that he favours. 

“Have a drink, angel. I didn’t follow you, I promise. I always drop in for the festival if I can.”

Aziraphale takes the skin, reasoning that if the demon just drank from it then it is probably safe. And it is, just the usual beer. Carefully, he sits down beside Crawley. 

“Why do you come for the new year here?”

“Sirius,” Crawley says, as though that answers the question. Aziraphale shrugs. 

“What about it?”

“Well, it’s one of mine.”

“One of your what?”

Crawley frowns, his hand coming up to worry at the necklace he has draped around his neck. 

“One of my stars. I put it there.”

_Oh._

“You were a starmaker?” Aziraphale asks, his fingers twisting his ring. His angelic ring. It always feels heavier when he talks to the demon. “I didn’t know.”

“Never told you, did I?” Crawley’s indifference is careful. “But yeah. I was.”

They sit in silence, taking it in turns to drink from the skin. This is the first time Aziraphale has sat in the demon’s company for longer than a minute or two and he is sure that Gabriel or Sandolphan will appear to punish him. But this is news that he simply has to know more about.

“Sirius is one of the more important stars, isn’t it?” he asks, watching Crawley, because suddenly there is a vague memory stirring and he cannot help his curiosity. “Didn’t - wasn’t Raphael the starmaker who designed it?”

Crawley pauses, the briefest of pauses, in raising the skin to his lips, then gives an artful shrug. 

“He was.”

“Oh.”

_Raphael._

**

_London. 31st December 2019_

Crowley is out for a drive when he gets the phone call. It has been a rainy few days and he’s been getting antsy trapped inside the bookshop, so Aziraphale kicked him out that morning to go and shake off some energy. 

“My dear, when you come home please will you bring some more eggs for the children, and some of that South African wine? Oh, and some stilton. And a pork pie.”

“Anything else?” Crowley laughs, wondering what the angel has planned for the evening. 

“No, that’s all,” Aziraphale says primly. “Those are just the things I forgot.”

_Why are you laughing, Father?_ Sam asks, his little head popping out the basket that he and Junior are curled up in on the passenger seat.

“Just Azirafather being funny,” he says. “We’ve got a job to do, spawn. Time to hit the supermarket.”

_What’s a supermarket?_

“The absolute last place we should want to be on New Year’s Eve.”

By the time Crowley gets home, snake basket under one arm and shopping bag in the other, it is already dark. He bloody hates winter. 

The first thing he does is put Junior and Sam under the heat lamp in the window, where they curl happily into one another. It’s too cold out for them, really, but they are so eager to be out and about with him that he can’t deny them. 

“Angel!” he calls, although he is sure that he already knows where Aziraphale will be, and he’s proved right when a call comes through from the kitchen. Aziraphale is at the counter, stirring something in a pot on the hob, and it smells pretty good. 

“Hello, darling,” Aziraphale says. “Where are the boys?”

“Warming up. What are you making?”

“Soup, for us to eat and for the children to hold.”

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.”

For the next few hours, Crowley is banished to the back room. Ben, Raffy and Tiff are already in there, tucked up under another heat lamp, when he brings Sam and Junior to join them. 

_Father! Can we watch cartoons?_

“Sure,” he says, flicking on the TV and hefts the tank on the table so the spawn can peek out at the screen. Then he decides to take a nap, because Aziraphale is up to something and he will just spend the time getting in the way if he doesn’t distract himself.

It’s late when Aziraphale wakes him with a kiss to his forehead. 

“Eleven,” the angel says, when Crowley asks the time. “And time for your surprise, darling.”

The kids are already elsewhere, so Aziraphale must have moved them while Crowley was asleep. He allows himself to be bundled into a thick coat and scarf, then Aziraphale takes his hand and leads him upstairs. 

Weirder and weirder.

“What are you up to, angel?”

“You’ll see.”

There’s a door at the end of the landing that definitely hasn’t been there before. Aziraphale pulls it open and guides Crowley through, up some more stairs. Then there’s _another_ door. 

“Angel, if you were going to do some renovation, I could have helped you.”

“Barely any work. Come on.”

The second door opens out onto a flat roof space that is covered in clumps of moss and clearly has been here all along. There’s a thick blanket laid out, and a couple of the kids’ baskets on top of it. 

“Wow, Aziraphale. You’ve been busy.”

_Father! Come and see._

The kids are all tucked in with layers of blankets, and they’re curled around cups full of steaming hot soup. 

_Azirafather said that we can stay up!_ Tiff says. _To see the new year._

“Lucky you,” Crowley says, sitting down between the baskets and taking up another blanket that has been folded nearby. He drapes it over his legs. “Always a pretty good show in London.”

There’s a picnic laid out too, and Aziraphale hands Crowley his own mug of soup. Then he cracks open the wine, which is altogether a better idea. Still, Crowley sips at the mug. Spicy, just how he likes it. 

The children chatter amongst themselves as Aziraphale pours the wine and takes a slice of the pork pie. The air is cold, catching in Crowley’s throat, but the warmth of the mug helps and the wine will help too. He lifts a corner of his blanket and raises an eyebrow. Aziraphale still blushes at this sort of thing but he creeps under it, and they sit with their knees touching. That will help too. 

_What is the new year?_ Ben asks. 

“It’s a celebration,” Aziraphale explains. “One of the oldest, although it looks very different depending on where you are in the world.”

“And when,” Crowley adds.

_Why?_

“People celebrate because they are thankful that the old year has ended and a new one has come. They celebrate because the new year means new life.”

_Like us. We are new life._

“Yes, Raffy, darling. You are.”

Crowley listens to them talking, gazing up at the sky. It is a remarkably clear night, for London, and he wonders if Aziraphale has something to do with that too. Even if it is just over their little patch of home. 

“Can you see it, darling?” Aziraphale asks suddenly, squeezing Crowley’s hand. 

“See what?”

“Sirius.”

“Yeah,” Crowley says, a lump in his throat, because suddenly this all makes sense. Their first new year since - since the very first one they spent together. The very first time they talked, or shared a drink, or even sat together to pass the time of day. It had been a new year, and Crowley had never told anyone about who he was before the Fall. No one had ever asked. But it was a new year and for the first time, the very first, he was brave.

And now they are here, with their little family, and this is the first new year since the world almost came to an end. And Aziraphale hasn’t forgotten. 

“I can’t believe you remember, angel.”

“Of course I remember. _Of course._ ”

_What’s Sirius?_ Junior peeks his head over the top of the basket he is sharing with Sam. _Father, are you alright?_

“I’m alright, spawn. Just Azirafather surprising me, that’s all.”

The angel puts his arm around Crowley and lets him hide his face in his shoulder. 

“Sirius is a star. The very brightest star in the sky. And your father made it, you know.”

_Father made the stars?_ Raffy asks, and Crowley puts out a hand to let her wind around him. His Raffy, who shares his name, although she doesn’t know it yet. She slides around his wrist and he brings his hand to his face, where her little tongue flickers against his cheek. She can taste the salt there, no doubt. 

“He did,” Aziraphale says, such pride in his voice. “One day he’ll tell you about it. But tonight, we will watch the fireworks. This is how we celebrate here and now.”

_Fireworks make a loud noise but we shouldn’t be scared._ Tiff recites Aziraphale's words, from memory. _And they make bright lights that we might be able to see if we look carefully._

“That’s right.”

Crowley puts Raffy back in the basket and cuddles into Aziraphale’s side. The angel’s fingers slip through his hair as they share first one glass of wine and then the other. 

“I love you, angel,” he whispers, pressing his lips against Aziraphale’s ear, his heart full, as the first firework goes off and the kids shriek with excitement, rearing up for a better look. Aziraphale turns and kisses his forehead, lips so gentle that Crowley thinks he might cry again, given half a chance.

“Oh my darling, I love you too. My starmaker. Happy new year.”


End file.
